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Laine Viv Jun 2017
If I were to write about you,

I wouldn’t say how much I like your jokes,
I would rather say how your face lights up a little when you see me laugh.

I wouldn’t say how quiet you are when the sun rises because you’re aware of my presence,
I’d rather say how you respect my need and appreciation for peaceful mornings.

I wouldn’t say how warm your hand feels when you touch mine,
I’d rather say how I see you try to hold back a goofy smile when you gently reach for my hand.

I wouldn’t say how much I treasure all the songs we dance to,
I’d rather say how you always dance with me when I need it and it doesn’t matter that you think you always mess up a few steps because we’d laugh about it and I’d feel a little better.

I wouldn’t say how I like it when you listen to all my stories and say all the right things at the right times,
I’d rather say how much you remember all of them and how much you know that there will always be more.

I wouldn’t say how much I appreciate your genuinely kind words or your straightforward opinions when you tell me what I need to hear,
I’d rather say how much you accept and take note of my words as well.

If I were to write about you,
I wouldn’t write about how you make me feel,
I’d simply write about the way you just are.

If I were to write about you,
I wouldn’t write about the things I like about you
for if I were to write about you,
I would write about...you.
A poem I've written months ago. My inspiration for this is a love so simple, so ideal, so genuine, yet is so rare
Laine Viv Apr 2015
Striped carnation (refusal):
     I have long since discovered that the fires
     in me were never going away.
     The heaviness, from refusal
     to spit the ashes.

Queen Anne’s lace (fantasy):
     I thought you put out the fire last night
     but you weren’t there.

Willow herb (pretension):
     How long have you been gone?
     I told myself as many lies as I could handle
     but none of them ever worked.

Scabiosa (unfortunate love):
     We’ve built enough bridges to take us nowhere–
     tell me again what we’ve become:
     trembling hands,
     trying not to spill blood on what was left.
Laine Viv Feb 2015
You, my dear, are not the sun.
I will not label you as something
that I need in order to survive;

You are not here to make me grow;
I can build castles inside me on my own--
I do not need you in order to rise.

The moon has always been up there,
trying to watch over our lonely souls
and I hear its response through the night's soothing sighs.

And you are not the moon, no,
you do not deserve such a title.
You are not a star,

You are not as wonderful as the galaxies above
and you most definitely are not the universe,
composed of all things strange and lovely.

You, I repeat, are not the sun.
I will not grant you the permission
to help me live.

And I wish I had known that earlier.
I read a writing prompt on tumblr: "Use this sentence in or to spark a poem: "I wish I had known that earlier."" and I tried opening a book at a random page and closing my eyes, then pointing at a random word. I randomly pointed at the word "sun" so here's the poem I've composed.
Laine Viv Feb 2015
Dear, I haven't told you
the many times I've wished
to capture the stars above

to have something in my hands
that twinkle more than your eyes do

For I was blinded,
and I wanted to forget.

To forget how you lit up every
piece inside of me
and left with an agonizing
heat that started a fire in my lungs

I tried to breathe you out
but your entirety has consumed
whatever monsters I had.

Now, you are all of them.
Laine Viv Oct 2014
There are silent screams running through my veins
with heavy sighs trying to break my bones;

We let out cold whispers and icy breaths
as we tried to look for reasons

to keep our words,
to save us from slicing our own throats

but memories of shrieking and shattering glass
still linger inside me; and I realized things can’t be unseen

I don’t know which is worse—
I tried to abolish the thoughts

but your bloodstained hands still haunt me.
Laine Viv Oct 2014
One moment, you’ll start to realize
how much his touch could melt your skin,

and how his words bled
with empty promises

but could fill your soul,
starving for security, trying to fix the cracks.

And there will be agony,
but you’ll mistake it all for love.

One moment you’ll see yourself in his eyes—
lifeless—buried in tragedies, unable to escape

and there, you’ll stay.
Not in his life, but in his eyes,

burning with catastrophe;
there will be flames, devouring your insides

and you will mistake gasoline for your patience
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